


Soar in the sky (with me)

by Menatiera, Trashcanakin



Series: Bingo Fills [24]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Wings, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Gets a Hug, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon Compliant, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Multiple, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Iron Man 1, Tony Stark Gets a Hug, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, WinterIron Reverse Bang, multiple meetings through the years, winteriron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-02 18:02:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20393239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menatiera/pseuds/Menatiera, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trashcanakin/pseuds/Trashcanakin
Summary: "The Asset was suddenly entirely sure that the kid was like him. He couldn’t track down the origin of that thought, or the base of this feeling of similarity, but ultimately it didn’t matter. It was instinct like battle-readiness, like the anticipation of the next move of an opponent before his conscious brain could catch on."***"He didn't move for a moment, too surprised. This position was too sudden and too much - the closeness wouldn't have been a problem for him, Tony was used to his private space being invaded, but the fucking wing outstretched over him made it into a nest, caring and intimate. Tony was used to sudden closeness, had been in just enough parties with drunk university students, even if this environment wasn't where he would've expected something like that. What was truly shocking, though, was the lack of visceral reaction from him."They have met more than once. It wasn't their fault that it took decades for them to come around, though.





	1. That fateful first glance

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Winteriron Reverse Big Bang fic, inspired by Trashcanakin's gorgeous drawing.
> 
> Huge thanks for my amazing betas Politzania and betheflame. You're awesome.
> 
> Later chapters will serve as Bingo fills as well, so stay tuned.
> 
> The fic will be posted through the next week, with a completion deadline of August 31.

It has been raining for nine days. The Asset could count it with confidence, because he also has been awake for nine days by now.

The mission wasn’t complicated - he liked it, though that definitely was to be kept secret. 

The mission was easy. He didn’t have to actually do anything so far: he was guarding his handler, and so far the Asset’s presence was enough of a warning and a threat rolled into one that his skills weren’t tested in action.

He liked the rain, too. It was soothing to listen to, the drops hitting the ground in their steady rhythm, and it brought out the smells more clearly. The wet air felt fresh and nice. Also it made individual flying impossible, which meant the Asset had to look out for fewer threats.

He turned his face upward, his wings carefully folded on his back, his shoulders straight. He didn’t wear his mask now - for some reason he didn’t ask, he had been ordered not to - and the water on his skin unlocked something, something in his chest, a knot he hadn’t been aware of before. A raindrop fell on his closed eyelid and he breathed through his nose, enjoying the sensations. The wet leather on him would smell terrible later, but that was in the future and not now - the Asset rarely worried about the future. He wondered, briefly, how long this mission would last. Him being sent out probably meant that his handler and the business partner were close to an agreement. Though this pause, this moment to just be, without supervision, wouldn’t last long. He’d have to go back soon, to keep an eye on his handler, the target of the protection detail. But right now he had these moments. He could---

The Asset sensed movement and he snapped back to attention, scanning the area.

There was…

A kid.

Well, not a child-kid, but a youth. The boy seemed to be around his very early twenties, maximum, as he hurried out of the building, sniffling and pouting. He kicked a rock away, tracked its trajectory with his gaze, stomped on the ground. Then something happened - like a string cut, the fight left his body, and he sank down into a sitting position, just out of the line of sight of anyone inside the building.

The Asset recognized that moment, that change of position when someone is being left alone, or at least the person thinks that. The Asset knew better than to ever believe he was alone, but this youth hadn’t learned that lesson yet. The kid wasn’t a threat, it was clear, so the Asset didn’t have to watch him anymore, but he still kept his eyes trained on the small figure.

The boy pulled his knees to his chest and hugged them close with both arms. When he turned his face up, his lips were trembling slightly.

The Asset was suddenly entirely sure that the kid was like him. He couldn’t track down the origin of that thought, or the base of this feeling of similarity, but ultimately it didn’t matter. It was instinct like battle-readiness, like the anticipation of the next move of an opponent before his conscious brain could catch on. The Asset mostly trusted his instincts, and he knew he was right. This young man was similar to him, familiar in a way he couldn’t explain but understood nonetheless.

The boy shuddered. The Asset was vaguely concerned. The kid wasn’t in any kind of tactical or even practical gear. His light gray shirt was already soaking wet. Another bit of knowledge kicked itself to the surface of the Asset’s mind: being out in the rain was dangerous. Getting soaked meant coughs rattling in lungs and cheeks burning red with fever; it meant sickness and sickness ultimately meant death.

That was to be avoided.

The boy wasn’t a target. 

The boy especially wasn’t a target of a protection mission. 

The Asset shouldn’t interfere.

The Asset was moving, long steps determined, while he tried to catch up with himself, to understand why was he in motion and what was his purpose in this situation and--

The Asset was sitting next to the boy.

The pavement was wet. The boy’s breathing was uneven.The air still smelled fresh and nice, but the boy smelled better. The Asset had no words to describe what was happening.

He carefully unfolded his right wing, the one closer to the boy, and stretched it out above. The raindrops felt light on his dark feathers as he shielded the kid from the rain, from the sickness, from death.

The boy stared at him. The Asset didn’t look back, he trained his gaze on the lawn in front of them. It was a carefully maintained grass, after all. The green of it vivid because all of the wet weather.

They didn’t talk, but the Asset kept his right wing stretched out above the boy’s head.

After a while, the boy laid his cheek on his bent knee, peeking up at the Asset only from the corner of his eye.

“Soldier!” The voice was sharp and commanding, and the Asset was at attention before the last consonant was out. “Get in, you aren’t finished yet.” It was more barked out than said, but the Asset wasn’t worried. He had never seen this field handler before, and he doubted he would ever again. Low-level officers came and went without any effect on him. He definitely wasn’t high-ranking enough to administer any kind of punishment.

His handler, the real one, was a different matter, and the Asset definitely didn’t want to keep  _ him _ waiting.

He crossed the distance to the entrance with a few determined strides, and though he didn’t want to, he couldn’t help himself: he glanced back at the boy. His dark hair wet, his eyes narrowed, his position less miserable and more attentive by that time, the boy watched him go. Their gaze met for a brief second. The Asset felt the intensity of it like a punch in the guts, and he hastily turned his head away, but the weight of that glance remained with him.

He didn’t understand why.

He wished he could see him one more time to figure it out.

He wished he could keep the memory of the boy.

He knew wishes were for children and he wasn’t a child anymore. His wishes never came true, quite the opposite.

Two days later, when the mission was over, the business was done and his handler didn’t need an attack dog masked as a protector behind his back, the Asset wasn’t surprised to be led to a room full of technicians and a nefarious-looking chair in it. He didn’t protest against the procedure, gave his flesh arm when the man in a lab coat held out a hand. The needles slid into his vein one after the other. His brain went comfortably fuzzy. Something told him that it was for the better, when he was led to the chair, his instinctive panic was subdued by the chemicals in his bloodstream.

He understood the dark-haired boy again. Their resignation was the same. The boy’s defiance on his way out was just a facade - the movement he sank down to the pavement was the same exhausted surrender as the Asset’s bite on the mouthguard before the procedure.

They were both defenseless against… something.

The Asset didn’t know who controlled the boy, but for a moment he wished him to be here. He wished to lie and tell the kid everything would be alright and that they’d be free one day. He wished to see him one more time, just so that stupid weight their shared moment planted there would fall off of his chest. 

Pain bit into his mind and swallowed his memories whole until not even his screams existed, just the agony and the darkness and the resignation to it.


	2. Second first meetings are hard on both ends

Tony was drunk. He was drunk enough to let some of his guard down, at least, drunk enough to leave his company with a disgusted grunt, and saunter his way out to the balcony, not caring about the consequences of his actions. Obie was going to be mad for him screwing up his relationship with a potential partner, but that man had creeped the fuck out of him, and Tony was tired. He didn't sleep much lately - well, that wasn't new, was it? He hadn't been sleeping much since the-- since two years ago.

He leaned down on the rail of the balcony on his elbows, shoulders and head drooping, a glass of whiskey hanging loosely from his fingers. He wondered where it would land if he let it out of his grip - the world disappeared in darkness under him, even in just one floor's depth. (He wondered where would he land - it wasn't like a fall like this would be  _ lethal _ , it would just hurt a bit, it would be just a little bit of  _ interesting _ …) But the booze was too precious to waste. He needed that shit to survive these parties, plenty of boring people crammed in boring conversations, everyone looking the same old, white, grey-haired assholes with much younger women at their sides, and Tony was terrified that he'd end up like them in a few decades.

Because he was who he was. Because he had been born with a heritage and a duty and a life to live and expectations to fulfill, and there was only so much he could do to break out of those expectations. There wasn't a way  _ out _ of it, and Tony didn't want to be stuck  _ in  _ it, so he chose the only remaining option: to flee forward.

He couldn't be  _ normal _ , so he was going to be the opposite of it, the most eccentric he could be, the genius everyone expected him to be, ahead of everyone in good and bad alike.

Including drinking.

He had practice on that front already anyway.

It was good Rhodey wasn't here. Rhodey was in contract with the military, so he never was around anymore, and that was fine, really. Tony would only ruin his friend’s reputation anyways. God knew how Honeybear had managed to save himself from Tony's falling grace during their shared university days, and especially during Tony's self-destruction spiral after the-- crash. The car crash.

A glass door slid open somewhere with a quiet hum, and Tony wanted to square his shoulders and turn around and crack a joke, like  _ he should _ , but he couldn't muster up the energy.

He dropped his head lower, hoping that whoever it was would mind their own goddamn business and go away without recognizing him.

Of course, he was Tony fucking Stark.

Why would anyone pass up an opportunity like this?

Tony couldn't hear the steps, but he sensed the movements, or the presence maybe, when the man stepped next to him.

There was the distinctive sound of feathers ruffling, and the friction of fabric covering them, and suddenly there was a huge wing outstretched over Tony's head. 

He didn't move for a moment, too surprised. This position was too sudden and too much - the closeness wouldn't have been a problem for him, Tony was used to his private space being invaded, but the fucking wing outstretched over him made it into a nest of sorts, caring and intimate. Tony was used to sudden closeness, had been in just enough parties with drunk university students, even if this environment wasn't where he would've expected something like that. What was truly shocking, though, was his lack of visceral reaction.

Even  _ before _ , he always had a gut-deep uncomfortable feeling, the urge to put some distance between himself and the person too close to him, and it just got stronger with time.

But not now.

Now…

Maybe it was the wing? 

He rarely had winged people close to him; they weren't in the same societal circles. Winged were frowned upon, at best, being closer to animals than humans they couldn't be trusted. No matter Tony's personal opinion and his admiration over the aesthetic of wings, they weren't worth the fuss. His dad didn't even employ winged ones as servicepeople in their mansions, though he never complained about the cheap workforce they provided for the factories.

By all means, Tony should have been taken aback.

But he was drunk, his limbs felt loose and his head filled with fuzzy cotton, and he leaned toward the intruder instead. Because he wasn't one of this crowd, that was clear even in his current state.

An arm was wrapped around Tony's shoulders, and he did let go of the glass then, the shatter of it sounding from the darkness below them just like how fragile he felt himself. The arm was warm, though, and the hold of it just added to the intimate nature of the closeness with this stranger, and Tony burrowed himself further into the embrace. He was gently guided, turned into a full embrace, one arm hugging from over his shoulder and one under his arm, fingers entwined loosely on his chest, right above his steadily beating heart. The body of the man was hot like a furnace. Tony realized only then that he had been cold and shivering, the sensation dulled by the effect of alcohol in his bloodstream.

He wasn't sure he was awake. This stuff happened only in dreams, right? 

Only in dreams could someone find himself in the embrace of a stranger and yet feel at home in that embrace, even without knowing anything of the owner of the strong arms... And not only that - one wing was still outstretched over him, as if he was protected from a threat coming from above, but the other one, the left one was curled around them too, shielding them from the world, from the darkness of the night and the noise of the party. It was a safe cocoon, unreasonably so.

He had some hazy recollection about another winged one, years and years ago, and feathers above his head, shielding him from the rain. He remembered being comforted when he hadn’t been expecting any comfort from the world. He wasn’t sure if the memory was real or just the product of his overworking mind.

He was almost afraid to turn his head to look at the - wait, how had he known that it was a man? There was nothing to give his gender away beforehand, yet Tony was sure, without a doubt. Maybe his mind registered certain signs unconsciously, he decided, as he suppressed his spike of anxiety and looked at his current partner.

The stranger was muscular, that much Tony had felt from the embrace too, from his back being pressed to the winged one's chest. Now he got some visual proof of it. The shoulders were wide, despite the almost thin waist. He wore black leather, by the look of it, and--

Tony swallowed. He couldn't see much of the man's face, because it was covered from chin to nose by a black mask. Outside of kink parties, Tony had only seen this kind of thing once, and that was on the movie screen, covering Hannibal Lecter's face. It wasn't a pleasant association now that the owner of the real version of the mask was currently holding Tony in his arms. The mask didn't cover his hair though, soft-looking, chestnut-brown, hanging freely on both sides. It didn't cover his eyes either, and the breath was punched out of Tony's lungs the moment their eyes met. It was a gorgeous color, at the edge of being gray and blue, which should've made the man’s gaze cold, but instead Tony found it the opposite. Those eyes were filled with sadness and longing and pain, and it was a gaze Tony recognized and understood, seeing it in the mirror every morning. But it was also filled with things Tony didn't understand, only wanted to.

He wanted to understand this man so much it ached.

“Hey there gorgeous,” Tony murmured, against his better judgement, but the booze in him let his tongue loose as well. The figure didn’t answer, but his hold tightened around Tony. His palm flattened on Tony’s chest, like he was listening to the heartbeats.

Then the winged ducked his head and buried his face into Tony’s clothes, to the place where his neck and shoulder met, and Tony had to giggle a bit because it was ticklish and it should’ve felt  _ repulsing _ but instead it was nice. The stranger smelled nice, and his hold felt comfortable and calming. Tony was sure it was the alcohol. Maybe he was more drunk than he had thought previously. It was good drunk, though. Better than being all headache-y and skittish and restrained in his own skin.

He could hear the man taking a deep breath through the mask, like he tried to sniff Tony. Strange. Tony had read somewhere that the winged had a weak sense of smell. Why was his brain supplying him with such useless information, anyway? He should just enjoy it now that he was in the situation.

Tony reached up to pet the winged’s hair. It was just as soft as it had seemed, the locks thick between his fingertips.

The stranger hummed, in a low and even voice that vibrated through Tony’s body as well because of their position.

“You like that, huh?” Tony mused, smiling. “What’cha doin’ out here alone, angel?”

The pet name slipped out without a second thought.

It seemed to be a mistake. The winged tensed up, and slowly, ever so slowly pulled away. His palms brushed the whole of Tony’s chest as he untangled his fingers and retracted his hands and wings. They rested on Tony’s shoulders for a second or two - just enough for Tony to take a deep breath and for the man to exhale sharply - then it was over.

The winged man didn’t touch Tony anymore and his body didn’t warm him up anymore and Tony mourned the loss as the cold air around him rushed back. Like a protective bubble popping, he heard the sounds of the party again, however distantly.

Tony spun on his heels to face his cuddler, but he only managed to get another glimpse of the winged before he disappeared into the darkness, melting into the shadows.

There was a moment, though, before that. A moment when the stranger looked back at Tony, and their eyes met, and Tony's mind jerked with unexplained deja vu.

Tony stared after him, confused, and not daring to call out loud. With how fast the man disappeared, he wasn’t sure anymore that he was there in the first place. What would a winged do in a party like this, anyway? 

( _ Maybe it was his guardian angel, like the one in his mom’s stories… _ He swapped that ridiculous thought away. Angels didn’t exist, and if they did, they weren’t paying attention to the world at all.)

Tony only started to reluctantly head in when he heard the scream - his curiosity, again, taking the better of him.

It didn’t take long to discover the source of the uproar; their host was found dead in his office with his tongue cut out, a feather on his forehead, and a knife in his heart.

Tony was drunk, but not stupid. It didn’t take much to realize that his winged man, the one who hummed at the first praising word and hugged him like their life depended on it, the one that shielded them from the world with his wings, not only existed, but was in fact a murderer.

The only place Tony had felt even remotely safe in the last two years was in the embrace of a killer.

Tony sipped a gulp from his newly acquired champagne glass. What a night.

He shut his mouth and decided not to say a word to any living soul about this encounter.

He was drunk anyway. Who would believe him if he did.


	3. Your noncompliance will be rewarded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony Stark Bingo - R1 - Shared trauma

The Asset was annoyed. These men around him were amateurs. They were barely trained, badly equipped, and couldn’t use even  _ that _ equipment properly.

The Asset wasn’t sure who they were waging war against, but he knew he had been sent here to oversee their preparations and make sure that they did their best.

Their best was a horrifyingly low standard, and whenever the Asset showed them a better method, or gave them orders, the men weren’t able to listen. They complained about being overpowered, about the lack of comfort, about  _ everything _ .

The Asset showed them how to shoot their weapons properly. The men weren’t able to follow the instructions and kept missing the targets. The Asset showed them how to disarm an enemy soldier and cut his throat without alerting others. The men weren’t able to follow the instructions. The Asset swept the legs out from under them with a wing and lifted his hand to strike them down, but even from up so close the man wasn’t able to point a gun at the Asset properly to defend himself.

The Asset felt the pang in his mind where a memory should’ve been about better students, as if he had been training others before, like he had someone -  _ a girl?  _ \- who was so much better, so much more dedicated, but he couldn’t pinpoint it.

He threw the semi-automatic to the nearest man. “Come to me only when you’re ready to listen,” the Asset said, his voice conveying his annoyance. He wanted to fulfill his mission, but he figured the only solution to do it would be to win their war by himself. These men weren’t good for anything else but to be distractions while the Asset was going to do the actual work. 

He retreated to his tent, ready to spend the rest of the time there. He figured his handlers wouldn’t really approve his method, but the handlers weren’t here, and if the results were achieved by the extraction time, they wouldn’t protest. So he just had to make sure to do that, and do it before his time here was over.

The Asset nodded to himself. And he’ll report that these men were useless. Maybe he’d get a better team next time.

*

They came back sooner than the Asset expected. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed - days, maybe, but it could be hours or weeks - he couldn’t rely on his memory and didn’t keep track of time anyway. He didn’t need to, not yet.

So he was at least perplexed when Abu Bakaar flapped the entrance of the tent open, barking out an instruction. “Soldier, come into the cave, we have a task for you.”

The Asset got up. Bakaar was… the closest he had as a field handler here. Bakaar didn’t have full authorization, not even close, but he  _ was _ supposed to keep him informed and in check. (The Asset suppressed a snort at the thought. He could and would crush Bakaar with a finger if things turned out that way. He also had a set of instructions for particular situations that no one of these people knew of.)

For now, he followed Bakaar.

People whispered between themselves behind his back. He didn’t mind at all. Them questioning if he was human ( _ he wasn’t _ ), how was he able to stand his full gear and mask in the heat ( _ itching, thank you very much _ ), if he really got his wings from the devil ( _ maybe? He didn't know _ ), or if he’d kill them all ( _ only if absolutely necessary _ ). The Asset strutted his way into the cave without a pause, as opposed to everyone else who took their time to let their vision adjust to the darkness, forcing Bakaar to catch up with him. His only enjoyment was the little things he could rile up his handlers with, so of course he did so when he got the chance.

The chamber he was led in held a prisoner.

In theory, the Asset knew that the cave held a prisoner. He had heard the whispers about ransom, and a rich target who could turn their luck in this war. In theory he had known, but he didn’t listen because he had nothing to do with that poor devil.

The prisoner was worn out, his clothes torn, his face beaten, he smelled of sweat and blood. Something was familiar about him. Something in the Asset’s chest moved, like a jolt of electricity, and his wings winced, his eyes widened. He didn’t  _ remember  _ meeting this man, but his presence brought out a sense of deja vu that he couldn’t call otherwise than an echo of a forgotten memory. He  _ knew _ this man, somehow. He didn’t know his name, or where he had seen him before, but he knew him.

What was more important, though, was that he instinctively wanted to step closer. He wanted to curl around the man, beaten and broken as he seemed, to protect him from the world. He wanted to fold his wings above the two of them, to hide from the people’s hungry gaze around. He wanted to brush the hair from the man’s forehead, to flatten his palm on the man’s chest, to listen to the man’s heartbeat.

His feathers stood on edge, ruffled by the need, giving him goosebumps.

He didn’t move.

He looked at Bakaar.

“Stark refused to build us weapons,” the handler explained. “Torture him! Make him do it!”

The Asset didn’t move, speechless and incredulous. He blinked, like he had a hard time understanding the order - maybe he did, it wasn’t everyday he was tasked with something like this. But before either him or the handler could figure out the next step, the prisoner moved, his hand raising up and his fingers curling into a grabby motion. The slight jostling jerked on a dark piece of machinery sitting next to the prisoner on a table. It was attached to the man through wires, the Asset noticed.

“Angel…” It was a weak and pathetic sound, almost mewling. The prisoner coughed, but he tried to train his hazy gaze on the Asset. His eyes couldn’t focus, though, and he kept alternating between his masked face and what peeked out of his wings from behind his back. “I remem--”

The men around laughed, loud enough that even the Asset couldn’t hear the man finishing the word, the sentence.

The laughter felt so damn wrong.

The Asset had warmth pooling in his chest and sneaking around his stomach. He was no angel. Was he?

_ My little angel _ , a faint female voice echoed in his ear. And another one, a male, slightly slurring the words,  _ What’cha doin’ out here alone, angel? _ It sounded suspiciously familiar, even similar to the prisoner’s voice.

The voices had no source and no attachments to any particular thoughts or memories, they just floated around in his head, brought up to the surface with this single word. The Asset didn’t know where they had come from. The Asset didn’t care.

The male voice wasn’t only similar. It was the same, just distorted because of the circumstances.

He  _ knew _ this man.

“Soldier,” Bakaar raised his voice again. The Asset didn’t even bother to level him with a disguised stare. He thought about his current handler who never needed to raise his voice, who radiated authority from his mere presence. He remembered someone from long ago, too, even though he couldn’t recall the face or any other characteristics other than that the Asset was ready to follow that handler to death and beyond. 

Bakaar was a joke compared to the Asset’s real handlers, and normally he’d sneer at him, but right now he was busy staring at the prisoner.

With a quick, forceful movement, he spread his wings, tossing off the loose harness that kept them pressed to his back when on the ground. The chamber was tiny, and his wings were huge: with their full width revealed, he could touch both walls with the tip of his feathers if he wanted to. It felt good to stretch his muscles, it felt even better to knock the guards to said walls with the definite movement. That’s what they got for laughing, after all.

“Niet.”

He wasn’t going to torture this prisoner.

“What?”

Bakaar’s face got all red, and the Asset smirked under the beneficial cover of his mask.

“Not part of mission parameters,” the Asset added, his voice as carefully numb and neutral as always. Bakaar couldn’t force him to do it. He was not a real handler. In fact, the Asset could kill everyone in this room easily, without any of them having the chance to raise their weapons.  _ (Sometimes he wondered if he should.) _ But that… wasn’t his mission either.

He wanted to pick up the prisoner and get out. He wanted to tuck the man under his arm, to carry him out of here to a safer location. He wanted to shoot out to the sky and fly far away with this man who called him  _ angel _ . (Everyone knew angels didn’t exist.)

The Asset didn’t move.

“I know you,” the prisoner mumbled. His eyes shone. He was sweating. His skin was taut and red on his face. The Asset recognized the signs of fever when he saw them. “... angel.” The prisoner tried to reach out again, jostling the machine attached to him again.

“I won’t torture him,” he repeated his defiance.  _ Do it yourself if you want it to happen, _ he didn’t say.  _ You’ve already started successfully, after all. _

The Asset turned around and left the room, unable to look back to the prisoner.  _ Who the hell that guy had been? _ Why did they call the Asset in the first place, was it a trap? And why had the Asset felt the man to be so  _ familiar? _

He had no answers, which was nothing new.

His _disobedience _had been reported, of course.

It was punished too, severely.

Neither the handlers nor the Asset understood what caused the malfunction, so they simply assumed whatever it was, it got solved and hoped it wouldn’t happen again.


	4. Your memory is a thorn and it hurts

Tony stared at the screens. The whole reveal was a fucking clusterfuck, and he was so going to kill the Widow for throwing all the sensitive information out on  _ social media _ of all places. Tony and Jarvis had been running damage control since J alarmed him of the situation.

Sure, it was good that the dirty laundry was outed, but the information was not filtered at all, and that put good men in danger. Tony was racing against time and other intelligence agencies to find the trustworthy agents in dangerous situations that could lose their head because of their covers being blown, he didn’t have time to even look at the actual footage of the Helicarriers crashing or to muse about how Widow’s covers also went down on the drain with the wreckage of Project Insight. (He decidedly didn’t think about how close he had been to being shot at without even knowing about it.)

After a good two weeks, however, he managed to take a look at Cap and Widow’s recent adventures. The most interesting thing he found, however, wasn’t any of his teammates, not even the new addition to the roster.

The most interesting thing was their enemy.

Tony watched and watched and watched the footage for hours - eyes bloodshot, and mind restless.

He was  _ sure, _ without a doubt, that he knew this guy.

Tony had admitted only to Rhodey, in a drunken night after the disastrous Stark Expo, that he thought he had found his soulmate in Afghanistan. It was entirely ridiculous - soulmates weren’t real, just some New Age Voodoo Wicca Whatever Nonsense. Some people thought that everyone had One True Compatible Pairing that they’d find and everything should be unicorns and butterflies perfection after that, the sun always shining on them, the obstacles magically moving out of a relationship’s way.

So of course, it was bullshit, no scientific explanation to it.

Rhodey, also a bit drunk, had pointed out that the New Age bullshit might be exaggerated, but he himself also believed that there were people who were compatible with each other and who made good pairs or teams, oftentimes without good rational explanations for it, so he wouldn’t dismiss the whole concept as one, just would be careful to strip it down to the bare essence.

That still didn’t explain how could’ve Tony found someone compatible with him in his captivity of all places, so Tony firmly insisted upon his standpoint that the concept was made up.

Only.

Only to be confronted with a masked and winged assassin - clearly enhanced given how he wasn’t just able to stand his own ground against Cap but even corner Steve several times - who seemed suspiciously familiar.

Tony resisted the urge to drink himself senseless again. Instead he spent two days and nights building and rebuilding car engines until he was able to more or less untangle the mess in his head regarding the assassin.

Tony had remembered vaguely that he had seen him - or someone with a very high resemblance - in Afghanistan. By the end of the impromptu car repair session, he also remembered that the figure, masked and winged, refused to torture Tony in clear insubordination, against outspoken orders, only to never be seen again.

He also remembered vaguely that in Afghanistan he had found the figure familiar, which he previously had thought was him being delirious because of pain and torture and dehydration, but maybe that wasn’t the truth. 

By the end of that thought process he was also able to recall a party. A party where he had been (unsurprisingly) drunk, and where he had been hugged by a winged and masked man. The party was more memorable due to the host being killed that night, though, which made even more sense in retrospect, if the winged man who had shown kindness and tenderness to Tony was in fact a Hydra pet assassin.

Was that part of some twisted cover or an act of the man under the machine?

Tony hadn’t remembered, but his mind somehow dug up a third memory too. That was from a time when his parents had still been alive, when he was young and rebellious and hated everything about SI yet he was forced to participate in some aspects of its operation. He remembered running out of a building and crying in the rain, slumped down and defeated about something - an argument he couldn’t recall - when someone joined him, and sheltered him from the rain with his wings. He remembered bright blue eyes - _h_ _ ow did he not connect the dots before? The same eyes as the mysterious stranger’s at the party!  _ \- and a soft, wary, sad expression. The man didn’t have a mask on that time, but if Tony’s memory served him well, the exasperation and exhaustion were deep enough on his features that they overshadowed any other characteristics.

Tony considered drinking again, but refused to slide back down on the slippery slope again. He threw another handful of dried fruits in his mouth and chewed on them intently, though he wasn’t yet sure what his intent precisely was.

He didn’t know what to do with these bread crumbs of information.

Even if soulmates, to some extent, did exist, there was  _ no way _ on Earth Tony would want to poke this beehive.

First, it was a winged man, and winged folks couldn’t be trusted. Second, he was an international HYDRA assassin, the boogeyman of the whole intelligence community. Three, if some of the files were correct about him, and if the footage wasn’t a proof of Steve going insane, then he was also Cap’s bestie from the past. From least to most relevant, it was triple reason for Tony to keep his distance from the whole mess.

Steve and Natasha didn’t call him for backup. Admittedly, he had gone through an open heart surgery not so long before the mess and to the public’s knowledge, including SHIELD’s as well, he had blown up all of his suits last Christmas. So  _ maybe _ it was reasonable to not count him as an offensive force, especially with how much grumbling he did while programmed those chips at Maria Hill’s request.

But what was it worth? Offensive or not, aiding SHIELD openly or secretly or not, he still was on HYDRA’s kill list for a good reason. 

Maybe it was time to whip out the remaining suits from the garage that he kept as a secret for so long. It seemed that secrecy didn’t do much good for SHIELD either, though Tony would hate to admit that Steve might’ve had a point with that.

But even if he went back to action, for which he probably should be cleared by the doctors first, (not like Tony would care if they refused), that didn’t answer the most important question: what should he do about the discovery of the Winter Soldier?

AKA the Asset, AKA the Revenant, AKA Test Subject 084, AKA Sergeant Barnes, AKA Bucky.

Tony had nothing to do with that man. He was on the run anyway, disappearing from the surface of Earth right after the fall of HYDRA. 

Cap swore that the guy saved him before pulling that stunt, according to the voicemails he had left for Widow. Natasha claimed it to be impossible.

Tony privately agreed with Steve.

The man in his memories wasn’t cruel, nor cowardly. After seeing what scraps of information he had seen of the Winter Soldier and that whole project, however insufficient it had been, Barnes’s behavior made even more sense. He was tortured and controlled. He didn’t have a clear understanding of the world and was left to deal with the information he got from HYDRA the best he could. The Winter Soldier was reported as a lethal and efficient weapon, neither a rabid dog nor a loose cannon. 

Barnes was the Winter Soldier, but he also wasn’t. Barnes, under the shit that had happened to him, maybe-possibly wasn’t a bad guy. He was capable of kindness and empathy, at least if Tony remembered correctly and the guy comforting him not once, but twice indeed happened to be him. (And that was a huge if, even with Tony’s genius. What were the odds?)

Still.

Barnes wasn’t his concern, and certainly wasn’t his responsibility, and if Cap wanted him to be involved, he would’ve called Tony already. Steve should know that Tony had the necessary resources to find someone even if that someone dropped off of the grid.

Tony was determined to ignore this whole personal mess. He had better things to do. He had a company to take care of, even if he wasn’t the CEO of it anymore, his name was still on the building and he still was head of R&D. He had to work with Maria to salvage the wreckage of SHIELD and evacuate as many agents as possible as soon as possible. He had his private projects, including an army of metal suits. He had…

Dammit.

He had a mind that couldn’t stand down even if Tony wanted it to.

What if soulmates really existed? What if the pull that he felt each time he saw this Winter Soldier guy wasn’t just the product of his imagination?

What if he could help a tortured prisoner of war to come home, regardless of his personal feelings or possible involvement - or the lack of it, for that matter?

What if he  _ could _ help but he didn’t because of his own shitty, cowardly reasons - would he be able to look in the mirror the same after it?

Tony sighed. Chewed. Sighed again - more defeated this time. “Jarvis, start an ongoing search for this guy, but do it extremely discreetly.”

He was _so_ going to regret this.


	5. Run boy run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony Stark Bingo - K3 - Afghanistan trip gone wrong (again)

The Asset – Bucky – Barnes knew that he had to disappear. After everything, he had no way to tell who to trust, who to believe. He didn’t know what to think about… about anything. Everything. The world was a mess, and he had no way to navigate in it, and he needed time, to be left alone until he figured it out.

But he couldn’t get himself to take off. That didn’t seem safe. He folded his wings on his back as tight as he could and stayed on the ground.

He left the Captain on the riverbank, made sure he survived, even called an ambulance for him – they’d figure out what to do with him – but then he ran. It was the only possible and reasonable (re)action. Avoid capture. Avoid interrogation. Avoid being killed. Avoid, avoid, avoid.

He went from state to state.

He stayed on the ground.

He wondered if he should sneak on a cargo plane out of the USA – that would be a tactically sound plan – go to a country that doesn’t care much about the conflicts within the States – but he stayed. He wasn’t sure what made him stay.

Maybe the Captain. He broke orders because of the Captain. He had forgotten memories of the Captain. The museum exhibit said he was - Bucky Barnes was - best friends with the Captain.

But he also abandoned the Captain, and the mere thought of meeting him again filled him with dread. No – he’d ran to the other end of the globe to avoid facing the man. The Captain couldn’t be the reason he stayed for.

Hydra wasn’t, either.

The As—Barnes could and would burn them to the ground. He could swoop down from the sky and rain hell on them. He could get enough weaponry to raid over several outposts and bases. He could kill them. He could destabilize the organization further.

The main reason he didn’t do anything against them was that he didn’t want to risk meeting someone who would be able to gain control over him again. There was no way for him to tell who had that kind of knowledge and influence, who could be a handler and who couldn’t. It was safer to avoid possible handlers.

And even if he did - even if he killed them - that wouldn’t erase anything that he had done for them in past. No way to wash off blood with more blood from his hands.

Then what kept him here?

*

Navigating his brain felt like trying to read a story out of the soup with letter noodles in it. Pieces and details resurfaced every time he stirred it, but without actual context, they made little to no sense. He wasn’t sure how was he supposed to understand those tidbits.

After a while, he lost his patience. He gritted his teeth, and when the next piece of memory with a proper location attached to it came to his mind, he stole a car to investigate it in person.

*

It worked. He was the most surprised to realize that it… worked. Going to the places, seeing them with his own eyes, smelling and touching them helped to place the puzzle pieces. Slowly but steadily, his life started to become more coherent. Not much, and he got frustrated a lot, but he had to learn to appreciate the little progress he made.

After a while, the memories poured more steadily, enough that he had to start ranking them and not checking out all of them. They also stretched out more in time, the oldest being sometimes in the fifties, and the newest in the current decade. (Something about shooting at aliens in an invasion against Manhattan? That was pretty weird, that made him curious, but he deemed it too dangerous to check out.) The locations got varied too, basically all around the globe, though they still focused on America and Europe, but with more notable exceptions in China, Vietnam, South America and the Middle East.

After a while, he left the States. It was for the best. He didn’t fly. Even though that would help him to move undetected, he couldn’t bring himself to it. He travelled on the ground from country to country, collecting memories.

Until he reached Afghanistan.

*

He touched one of the rocks - it sported a faded black color, years after the fire that burned it. The site was still recovering; the plants had reclaimed the place where once a terrorist camp had been, but the land itself remained scarred. The Asset recognized craters left after explosions, and the areas where hazardous waste was burned, ruining the ground with scorch marks. 

However hard he tried, he couldn’t recollect doing such a destruction here. He moved slowly, stepped softly on the ground, reluctant to harm even an insect here. He walked around, until he reached the opening of the cave.

His memory stirred, coming up with images when he had walked through the entrance in the past. He remembered being annoyed - Ten Rings, they called themselves the Ten Rings. They were pathetic in the Asset’s eyes. He remembered wanting to leave them behind and do the job - what was the job? - alone instead.

There were a few items left piled up inside, mostly garbage. He recognized some - a broken Bowie knife, a cartoon of cheap cigarettes, empty crates, creased plastic bottles - it was military work, the remnants of a hasty cleanup after thorough destruction. At least there were no bodies rotting on the site, no skeletons cleaned of flesh by animals.

He touched the bullet marks, bitten into the walls. If he looked at them properly, he would be able to tell the caliber. He turned away, walking deeper into the belly of the mountain.

He didn’t know why he turned left at that particular junction, or what made him open the metal door, halfway torn from its hinge. But when he did, his mind immediately sucked him into a memory - a memory of a man, bruised and tortured, laid out on a hard surface. Examination table? Gurney? No, the man was still breathing, wasn’t dead - thank God he wasn’t dead - wires from the chest - hand reaching out -  _ angel. _

Barnes’ mind reeled.

_ Angel. _

Wings over head to protect from the rain.

_ Angel. _

A party, and a man he hugged.

_ Angel. _

His mother’s caress on his hair, calling him that.

Wings over head to protect from the rain.

_ Angel. _

A pull toward the man he didn’t know.

_ Angel. _

The little spider seeking comfort at his side.

Wings over head to protect from the rain.

_ Angel. _

Days spent sitting next to the bed of his sick friend instead of roaming the skies outside.

Washing his hands, scrub-scrub-scrubbing the blood from them meticulously, feverishly.

Wings over head to protect from the rain.

_ Angel. _

Burying his nose to the neck of the man, sniffling the scent and feeling safe, feeling at home.

Refusing orders because of the man, and not even once.

Wings over head to protect from the rain.

Showing himself when he wasn’t supposed to. Disrespecting his field handler when he wasn’t supposed to.

Being punished because of the disobedience, and thinking of the man’s brown eyes while his mind was put back into the blender again.

Wings over head to protect from the rain.

_ Angel. _

Wings over head to protect from the rain.

Barnes -  _ Bucky  _ finally collapsed.

*

When he came to himself, he didn’t go deeper into the cave. He didn’t need to. He had already retrieved the most important memory this place could give him.

He collected the gun he didn’t remember dropping, he pulled his shaky legs under himself, and touched his forehead to the rock walls on his way out, eyes closed, breaths shallow.

He remembered the man. 

He remembered his face, his smell, what it felt like to hold him in his arms. He remembered the bruises on the man’s face, and he remembered his voice.

_ ‘What’cha doin’ out here alone, angel? _ ’

The letters in the soup stilled and spelled out coherent words now.

He knew the man because he had met him, but he also knew because everyone knew him. Well, everyone knew who he was, at least, his name, his face, as it went with famous people. But he - Bucky - felt like he  _ really _ knew Anthony Edward Stark.

He knew, because they were meant to look out for each other. He knew, because of the old stories his mother used to tell him - about winged people, about their own kind - and how winged had an instinct, a sixth sense, a way to find their other halves at first sight. A way that connected them together, forming a bond for a lifetime.

Everything fell into place in Bucky’s head. 

Well, not everything, but - a lot of things. Memories slot into their places, settled down peacefully after decades of undisposed mess. He felt - calm. For the first time in fuck knew how long, he felt like he had solid ground under his feet and friendly wind under his wings.

He slowly walked out of the cave, squinting at the sunlight, and noticed that he was smiling. The landscape around him was burned. But there were flowers growing on the bushes, and a lizard was enjoying the heat on a rock nearby, its throat raising and falling with each of its breaths.

Suddenly the cloudless, open blue sky felt welcoming instead of threatening. It wasn’t lack of cover - it was promising. The wind would sing him songs long-forgotten to learn again and the sun would caress his skin up there.

Bucky shook the harness off of his shoulders, and slowly, reluctantly opened his wings. When was the last time he did this? It had been months since he escaped and he hadn’t flew once during that time. And before that…

Before that. 

Before that, Hydra often gave missions that required his flying abilities.

He had flown to reach mission sites undetected. He had flown to dodge bullets. He had used his wings as weapons, to incapacitate targets, to take out hostile agents. He had flown to get a shot from an unexpected angle. He had flown to reach extraction points, to be taken back into captivity and to keep doing the devil's deeds.

Bucky folded his wings on his back again, walked down on the slope and got behind the driving wheel.

He didn’t know what would Tony Stark say to him show up on his doorsteps - well, he had a few guesses - but he knew that he had to find out. Tony Stark deserved to make his own decision about the situation.

Stark probably didn’t even remember their encounters, but if he did, Bucky owed him an explanation at least, and to give him the chance to kick Bucky’s ass as deserved.

*

He didn’t need to knock on the door. He didn’t even need to walk up to that Tower.

Bucky just showed himself to some cameras and then waited with breath held at a nearby cafe that he had carefully inspected for possible escapes beforehand.

He didn’t know how, but he knew that Tony Stark would come alone, and lo and behold - there he was, standing at the door of the cafe from one leg to another as he scanned the place. Bucky waved at him, helpful - also showing his open palm, him not holding weapons.

Stark slipped onto the seat in front of Bucky, and Bucky stared at the table where Stark put his hands. He had nice nails, with carefully rounded edges, well-manicured for a man. Even with the little scars and calluses that peppered his skin, Stark had nice hands. The silence stretched for what felt like an eternity - objectively, for seven terrifyingly long seconds.

“So,” Stark said, “you are the Winter Soldier.”

“Not anymore,” Bucky answered, shaking his head a little.

“Cap is looking for you all around the globe, y’know that, right?”

He nodded, then shrugged. If his memories were correct about Steve Rogers, his childhood best friend, his brother in all but blood, his CO he literally followed to death, that made sense.

“And yet you’re here,” Stark observed, getting comfortable.

Bucky finally looked up. The man in front of him - the person he should look out for through his whole life - sat in a casual manner that was probably forced, with one elbow popped up on the backrest of the seat and his other hand still resting on the table, his ankles crossed, knees parted. He studied Bucky curiously.

“Yeah,” Bucky admitted, and wanted to be tactful about this. He had a lot of plans, came up with several scenarios on how to introduce the topic sensibly, but instead of acting out any of those, he heard himself blurting out, “do you remember me?”

Stark raised an eyebrow. “Wasn’t I supposed to ask that?”

“Probably.” He held Stark’s gaze. He took the lack of clear answer as a  _ yes _ . Or at least a promising  _ maybe _ . “I remember you,” Bucky added.

Maybe that was what sealed the deal. Maybe not.

What was sure that Stark pulled out a bill and set it on the table, then stood up. “Let’s continue this conversation at the Tower, shall we?”


	6. My palm still holds the curve of your shoulder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the beautiful artwork that inspired this story to begin with embedded in this chapter :)

Things changed in the Tower. For one, the Avengers were assembled.

Tony was impulsive, but not impulsive enough to take in a former assassin without having proper backup. Especially not to take in Capsicle’s former best friend without letting the pinnacle of human perfection to know about it, because as much as Steve was a good man, he  _ would _ kick Tony’s teeth out if Tony kept that from him. Nat came in tow, and Clint followed Nat like a duckling, and Bruce was already there, but Rhodey decided he wouldn’t leave Tony alone with this company, so, yeah.

Not that the Tower became crowded, given its size, but it became louder. Busier. Filled with noise - laughing together and screaming at each other alike - and movement and life.

Tony would lie if he said he didn’t like this new way.

But it was a lot, and it was overwhelming more often than not, so he hid away from it. He rarely spent time with the team - he wasn’t used to be part of a group. He had always been an outsider - because he had been younger, or rich, or just damn simply resented said group, and he didn’t know how to change now.

When he joined, he always stuck to Rhodey’s or Bruce's side, and that was apparently enough to keep a healthy distance from the rest of the Avengers and their associated people. Including Bucky Barnes.

Tony often felt Barnes’ gaze, but he did his best to ignore it. They clarified the most important issues on that first day - that Barnes wasn’t a psychopath, that he wasn’t under Hydra’s orders, and generally didn’t want to kill anyone, let alone innocent civilians. That was enough. If Tony died of curiosity about Barnes’ memories, and his reasons to act in those situations when they had met, it didn’t mean that he had to know any of that. It was probably better and safer for him to not know the reasons behind Barnes’ actions.

*

Weeks passed in haze of work. The world didn’t stop with a bunch of people changing addresses, and SHIELD was still a wreckage and half of the world’s governments wanted to see heads on silver plates. Stark Industries had more departments than ever; Tony asked Pepper to open them one after the other, to start manufacturing new products that would help the situation, to offer employment to ex-SHIELD personnel, to ease his own conscience for not noticing anything shady sooner. (Or more precisely, for not bothering to look into the core of the problems sooner.)

He didn’t have time to be bothered about Barnes.

Or his stare.

After Tony dodged two attempts at conversation from the winged assassin, Barnes didn’t try to seek him out again. Barnes kept looking, kept his eyes on Tony - those disturbing, breathtaking, beautiful, sad eyes - but didn’t approach.

Tony decided if Barnes gave up this easily, it must have not been important for him to begin with.

*

There were days, though. 

Days when the golden alcohol in the bottles seemed way more tempting than usually did, days when his chest pains flared up, days when one too many people accused of Tony things that weren’t his fault, days when the internet hate got through to him - despite Jarvis’ best filtering attempts and Tony’s best judgement -, days when Pepper snapped at him, days when Steve argued too loudly with Clint over the national debt or something similar, days when even hearing someone breathing next to him made Tony’s hair stood on edge. 

Days when everything was just a bit too much, maybe without any reason at all.

Days when Tony went to the roof of the Tower instead of the workshop, days when he wanted to breathe the fresh air up there, next to the garden, days when he wanted to be alone even without Jarvis and the bots.

Like that day.

He didn’t mind the rain - it actually helped to feel a bit cleaner, to not want to crawl out of his own skin. The cool drops on his overheated skin felt like a blessing, even to him who didn’t believe in anything holy.

He pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged them with both arms, curled up as small as he could and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. Sometimes it felt just damn pointless to try. To try to be the good guy, to not drink again, to ignore the hate spewed at his direction left and right. Sometimes it seemed it didn’t matter what he did to make up his past mistakes. It didn’t matter if he was a superhero or not, if he rescued kittens trapped on trees or flied a nuke through a wormhole - to most people, he still remained Tony Stark: disgusting billionaire, warmongering golden boy, the Merchant of Death.

The things that made him being able to help the most also separated him from everyone else the most, and sometimes Tony hated this, hated his life, hated to be alone with only two people and a handful of robots who genuinely cared about him.

The rain stopped.

No, it didn’t, it…

Tony blinked up, confused, at the sound of clothes rustling.

Only it wasn’t clothes, it was feathers.

There was a wing outstretched over his head, and Barnes, sitting at the pavement close by, but not close enough to touch. He apparently just arrived, given that he was just starting to get wet, but instead of shielding himself from the weather, he decided to cover Tony.

Like he did once upon a time.

Tony, almost as on instinct, slipped closer, until their sides touched.

It felt familiar - as in, like his body recognized the closeness, the heat that radiated from the winged man, the curves of Barnes’s muscles and the smell of him. But it also felt like… like arriving home, like getting into a place he belonged to, a puzzle piece finally fitting.

It made zero sense.

But that was okay sometimes, like in science the last step before the breakthrough, when everything seemed messy and uncooperative but deep down Tony knew he was close and if he could make that last step he’d finally understood everything and the theory would become practice and…

“You get sick,” Barnes said.

Tony snorted, then sniffed. “I’ll live.”

Barnes didn’t answer.

“What about you, Terminator?”

“I don’t get sick anymore.”

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. Barnes slipped into silence like into a worn-out, favorite sweater that was comfortable to wear despite the holes, that he was so used to and that he refused to throw out despite everyone begging him to do so. As opposed to the awkwardness Barnes radiated every time he had to use his words.

Tony was the opposite of that. He usually despised silence and needed constant audible stimulus, lest that be conversation or music. Except, apparently, with Barnes.

It hit him suddenly, how awkward it was that he still called the man by his last name in his head. Sure, he added silly nicknames out loud, like with everyone else, but… 

Tony knew immediately what name he’d like to call Bar-- Bucky in his head, and that wasn’t happening. There was no way Bucky would be comfortable to be called  _ angel _ , especially not after everything he had been through. 

Barnes mimicked Tony’s pose, knees pulled up, and he rested his temple on his metal hand. He shifted his wing too, probably realizing that there was no point in sheltering Tony anymore, and instead he curled the wing around him, like an embrace, like a warm and dry towel.

Tony realized that he had been shivering only when it stopped, because of the wing around him.

“Go inside,” Tony heard himself saying, glancing at the man, “you don’t have to be out here with me.”

“Maybe I want to be out here,” Barnes argued quietly.

Tony wanted to throw his arms up and announce that Bucky was stupid, and there was no point in both of them getting sick, but instead he snuggled closer. He turned his head and buried his face into Bucky’s shoulder for a few moments - inhaling the rich and good smell of him opened up something in Tony, eased his nerves and chased his anxiety away.

“Maybe I want to have more memories of you,” Bucky whispered, barely audible.

Tony lifted his head, but stayed plastered to Barnes’s side. “Why?”

The silence stretched,  _ still  _ not uncomfortable. Tony was in awe - it would have been terrible with anyone else.

“You are mine,” Bucky finally said.

Okay, that was mildly threatening and a bit psychopathic, but Tony could work with that. Especially since, so far, Bucky never did anything against people’s wishes, always made sure to stay out of their way and to respect everyone’s autonomy. So this answer was… confusing, to say. Bucky probably also realized that, because he worried his lip and tried again.

“I mean. I belong to you,” he added, and his blush was adorable, until Tony realized that  _ he _ was blushing too. He scoffed. He didn’t  _ blush _ . Not even when his sex tapes had been released on the internet, not even when journalists kept rubbing his past under his nose, not ever.

Except, apparently, with his angel.

He shook his head. “What?”

Bucky huffed, frustrated. “Okay, I’ll try again. My mother always said that we have another half. A person. Someone to belong with. And we’ll know. When we meet that person. Like… like fate, or destiny. She said we always have to look out for that person. Not as a responsibility. But losing our other half is the most terrible thing that could happen,” he said, slow and deliberate, stopping every few words. “Worse than seventy years of torture and brainwashing,” he added in the end. Tony wasn’t sure if he was supposed to hear that or not.

“You know that this soulmate thing is a big pile of bullshit, right?”

It didn’t feel like bullshit, but the scientist in him still refused to admit that this New Age nonsense might not be crap. But it also was the scientist in him that whispered that all the data he had - all the time he had spent in the company of one James Buchanana Barnes - was maybe not solid, but at least possible proof that it was, in fact, something worth to study, because it might be true.

Bucky shrugged, but with his wings instead of his shoulders. “It isn’t. Not for us winged.”

Oh. Well,  _ that _ was a variable Tony hadn’t thought of beforehand. 

“So you knew when you first saw me?”

He turned his body a bit more toward Bucky, but Bucky looked into the distance, to the skyline of the city below them.

“You should send me away,” he stated, his voice nervous.

“Why? So far all you’ve done was protecting me, one time hugging me, and staring at me constantly. None of that warrants a restraining order, if you ask me.”

“I’m an assassin,” Bucky mumbled. But even as he said that, his right hand slipped from his knee, brushing Tony’s.

Tony intertwined his own fingers with Bucky’s.

“You were used,” Tony argued quietly. “You didn’t know. It wasn’t your fault.” He took a deep breath, and turned his face upwards. The cool raindrops on his skin eased his blush away. “And I like you,  _ angel _ .”

Bucky’s fingers jerked, and Tony sensed movement from the corner of his eyes. Bucky was staring at him, his face open and vulnerable, for once not wearing the hardened mask of indifference.

“I feel good around you. The thing you said - that’s… this other half thing is still bullshit. I mean, I’m still myself, and not half of anything or anyone else. But…” It was Tony’s time to look away, not being able to stand Bucky’s intense gaze. 

“I didn’t  _ know _ -know,” Bucky said, before Tony could collect his thoughts, “I just felt. I knew you were different somehow. I thought you were like me.” 

Tony decided not to question that further. Especially not now when Bucky was opening up like this.

“I don’t allow anyone to do this either, y’know,” Tony said, and squeezed Bucky’s hand.

Bucky finally smiled a bit at that.

“I know.” He squeezed back. “I like you.”

Tony resisted the urge to laugh. It sounded like a confession in kindergarten - but he knew how much effort it took to confess something like this with Bucky’s background. How much bravery it might have taken - for a man who was always tortured and punished if he expressed his emotions - to do exactly that. This was real bravery, practiced in front of Tony. Everything Bucky had done since he joined Tony spoke volumes about his character.

Tony, if possible, squirmed closer, and leaned on Bucky’s shoulder. “I like you too, angel.”


	7. Epilogue

It took almost a month after that day on the rooftop for their first kiss.

It probably could’ve been less, but Tony, as Bucky predicted, got hell of a cold, and he was snotty for two weeks, and he didn’t blame Bucky a bit for not wanting to kiss him while he was blowing his nose every five minutes.

Tony grumbled the whole two weeks. The movies with the romantic scenes in the rain _ never _ showed the sick days afterwards.

But at least Bucky got a chance to nurse Tony back to health, and apparently he was an excellent nurse (courtesy of spending a childhood next to a chronically ill best friend, probably). They opened up slowly, they talked about neutral topics at first, and more in-depth later, and by the time Tony was healthy again they knew more about each other than anyone else - save from, probably, Rhodey and Steve, respectively. 

(Okay, maybe even more than that. There were things Rhodey didn’t need to know of, and same went to Steve, apparently. Best friendships were like that.)

It was a clumsy first kiss. 

Their teeth clicked together, and their noses felt to be in the way at first, and there wasn’t dramatic music in the background. There were two mugs of coffees, though, which made up for the latter in Tony’s opinion, and there was a bit strangled laughter, and arms wrapped around each other in a hug, and a second try that went way better than the first.

Bucky wasn’t a practiced kisser. He had been, once upon a time, but he didn’t really remember that, and didn’t really care. But he was very eager to learn and practice, and Tony had nothing against teaching him and practicing together.

*

Issues weren’t magically solved. Bucky was still on edge most days. His memory was still full of holes, like a piece of Swiss cheese. He still couldn’t sleep most nights. His protective instincts took over when it came to Tony - which resulted in a note to the common floor to warn everyone NOT to make sudden and loud noises if Tony and Bucky were nearby together. And he still couldn’t make himself to fly outside.

Well.

They were working on that. Tony showed the training floors, some of them big and open enough for flying practices, and he volunteered to coach Bucky into flying again, armed with some useful advices from Natasha, Steve and even from Clint.

At first they just stretched Bucky’s wings. Got him used to moving them freely again without actually taking off of the ground. They trained together - Tony working out in the most human way possible, and Bucky copying everything with added wing movements.

Then came the jumps, and then, one day, the actual take off and fly a circle in the closed space of the training room, then two.

*

Tony was _ livid _when pictures of him and Bucky kissing got leaked into the media.

Bucky tried to calm him down. “It’s okay, doll,” Bucky murmured, “the uproar won’t last long. They’ll get over it. I know it’s upsetting you, I know I’m not a good partner to be seen with, but another celebrity news will come that’ll overshadow this,” he tried to encourage his boyfriend.

That made Tony stop in his pacing. “That’s not why I’m mad,” he said, staring at Bucky. “Did you think… ah, what am I talking, of course you thought.” He rubbed his forehead. “No, Bucky, I’m not mad because it’s you. I’d be more than happy to show you off. I’m mad because it should’ve been us to let the world know, in our pace. Forcing someone to coming out is a dick move, and outing a whole relationship without permission to the world is even more dickish and doing that _ to you _, taking any decisions away from you, after you’ve been stripped off your agency for decades, is the ultimate, biggest dick move they could’ve done, so fuck them. I want blood for it!”

Bucky pulled Tony into a tight embrace. “Aww, doll, you’re always saying the sweetest things.” He kissed Tony’s temple and kept Tony’s arms pinned to his side. “I don’t mind being outed, as long as you don’t mind, either. I’m sorry your reputation will suffer because of me… and for what I am… for what I’ve done… but I don’t mind it for myself. Not at all. I am proud of you, doll.”

Tony turned toward his boyfriend and kissed him properly. “And I’m proud of you, angel. So let me ruin some so-called journalists’ careers, because they deserve it, and let me figure out how to spin this so I can properly show you off like I want to, as long as you’re comfortable with it.”

Bucky let go of Tony’s arms, but kept him in his lap. “Sounds like a plan.”

*

Six months after the day on the rooftop, the moment they decided on as a supposedly anniversary of their relationship start, Bucky stood on the same rooftop again. He wore only sweatpants, nothing above, and he chewed his lips nervously. The idea wasn’t unbearable, and he knew he could do it, but it was still nerve-wracking. The open air was calling for him, but it was still threatening a bit, like a minefield, like all of its beauty held unseen dangers.But he didn’t have to face them alone.

Bucky glanced back.

A few steps behind him, Tony grinned and showed both his thumbs up. “You can do it, angel,” he encouraged.

Bucky took a deep breath.

He could. Tony counted on it. Tony believed in it. Tony believed in _ him _.

He wanted to be Tony’s _ angel _ , and angels were supposed to fly. _ He _ was supposed to fly. He had been flying since he knew his mind, and he couldn’t allow Hydra to take that away from him. Flying had been his joy once, and he wanted to reclaim it again.

“Come on, Bucky,” Tony murmured under his breath. Bucky wasn’t sure Tony intended him to hear these words. “I know you can do it if you set your mind to it.”

He wanted to.

He spread his wings, and stepped to the edge. The wind caught into him, waved his coverts. It felt nice, if he closed his eyes. It felt like fingers brushing through his feathers. It felt like a gentle, caring touch, even with the force palpable behind it.

Bucky spread his arms too, and stood there for a minute, eyes closed, just feeling the wind.

Then he leaned forward, and started to fall and for a terrible, horrible moment he felt paralized like back when he had fallen from the train, like after his wings were reduced useless, paralized weight on his back - but then his opened them further and laid back on the air and shot out to the high sky.

He was flying.

The movements came easy, like always, instinct taking over rational thoughts.

He was flying.

He yelled in joy and dropped himself into a nosedive, did a bunch of cork-screw spins, and rose again.

He heard Tony cheering in the distance, and he turned toward the sound.

Bucky’s laughter was strong and loud as he dropped down right next to Tony, ruffling up his boyfriend’s hair with the wind he whirled.

“Come on,” Bucky said, grabbing Tony’s hands and planting a long, passionate kiss on Tony’s lips. “Grab a suit, sweetheart, come on. Fly with me!”

Tony grinned.

Bucky kissed him again.

The world was on its axis, spinning with them as it should, and they were at their places, where they belonged, when they shot up to the sky together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was Winteriron Reverse Big Bang adventure with you, dear readers! I hope you enjoyed the ride! Please drop a comment, even if it's just a simple "Liked it" or "Extra kudos," I can assure you it'll warm my little heart! :D
> 
> Thank you again for Trahsie for the gorgeous artwork, and for Poliz and Flame for the amazing betawork! :) You made this fic possible! :D

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, please consider leaving a comment and/or kudos - they are a lifeline for a writer drowning in projects and deadlines! :D


End file.
